


Yuri!!! on Ice Soulmate Week ficlets

by zjofierose



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Anxious Katsuki Yuuri, Asexual Christophe Giacometti, Badass Katsuki Mari, First Meetings, Georgi Popovich is not prepared, Light Angst, Lonely Victor Nikiforov, Multi, Otabek Altin is a rock, Platonic Soulmates, Polyamory, Romantic Soulmates, Soul Bond, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:15:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25388152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjofierose/pseuds/zjofierose
Summary: 6 ficlets for the Yuri!! on Ice Soulmate Week1: Mari/Georgi - Sound2: Chris/Victor - Touch3: Otabek/Yuuri - Communication4: Sara/Mila - Sight5: Phichit/Chris/Seung-Gil - Emotion6: Victor/Yuri P. - Time
Relationships: Christophe Giacometti/Victor Nikiforov, Katsuki Mari/Georgi Popovich, Mila Babicheva/Sara Crispino, Otabek Altin/Katsuki Yuuri, Phichit Chulanont/Christophe Giacometti/Lee Seung Gil, Victor Nikiforov/Yuri Plisetsky
Comments: 36
Kudos: 56





	1. you are the voice inside my head - Mari/Georgi

**Author's Note:**

> a collection of short ficlets, not related to any of my existing YoI verses!! written to inspire, for YoI Soulmates Week.

Georgi knows, intellectually, that the voice you hear in your head isn’t  _ really _ your soulmate.

Not the continual mumble of  _ socks, shoes, skates, where the fuck are my keys _ , not that voice; no, the voice that, when you pause and think,  _ why did this happen? _ , or  _ what am I going to do? _ The voice that answers back, that says,  _ “sometimes things just happen; it’s okay to be sad, _ ” or, “ _ the first thing to do is to call them and try to talk it out.” _

It’s not a true connection; it’s still your own thoughts, not theirs, everyone knows this. The fact that this voice in your head speaks with your soulmate’s voice, whether you’ve met them or not, is a scientific curiosity. As is the whole soulmate thing generally, but it always has been, and so everyone just shrugs and moves on with their lives. Everyone who has a soulmate recognizes them at first hearing, and everyone else, Georgi expects, has peacefully quiet minds. 

Still, identicality of pitch aside, it’s only ever your own consciousness talking, so while the voice is Georgi’s head  _ sounds _ exactly the same as the one that comes out of Katsuki Yuuri’s sister, there’s a… how can he put this nicely? A slight difference in tone. 

“ _ More _ Russians, Yuuri?  _ Really _ ? And what happened to your suitcase?” is the first thing Georgi hears with his ears in the voice he’s had in his head since birth, and he promptly drops his skate bag on his foot. It’s been a year since Anya, and it’s summer now, and somehow Viktor had convinced all of Yakov’s team to come to Hasetsu for the month of July, and here, here is Georgi’s  _ soulmate _ , busy scolding her gold-medal winning baby brother for his company and the state of his luggage.

Georgi picks his bag off of his foot and closes his mouth. Yuuri is doing introductions, starting with Mila and coming his way. He tries to straighten his shirt. 

“And this is Georgi,” Yuuri says at last, and Georgi manages to clear his throat without choking.

“Hello,” he says, and she blinks. 

He waits. There are no fireworks, no violins playing. She lights up a cigarette and folds her arms across her chest, wrinkling her service uniform. Her hair is growing out a bleach job, and her eyes are as inscrutable as Yuuri’s are emotive. 

“Yuuri,” she says, still looking at Georgi, “everyone’s staying up in the east rooms. Go get them settled; I’ll be in to start serving dinner in a minute.”

Yuuri nods, and begins the raucous hustling of a van-load of Russian skaters, suitcases, gear, and pets into Yuutopia. Eventually, things are quiet, and Georgi stands watching with his suitcase and his skate bag and his bruised toes as Katsuki Mari takes a last drag, then rubs her cigarette out into a can by the backdoor.

“We’re soulmates,” Georgi says, and he almost doesn’t recognize his own voice as it comes out of his mouth. It’s delicate, unsure; a careful tendril sprouting into foreign air.

Katsuki Mari eyes him up and down, arms still crossed, weight on her back leg as her front toes tap. “We are,” she agrees, and her accent is thicker than her brother’s, Japanese enunciated English coloring the voice that he’s heard speak Russian his whole life. She tips her head to the side, mouth quirking up in a sharp smile. The resemblance to Yuuri when he’s got his eyes on something he wants is uncanny, and Georgi nearly sways where he stands.

She lifts her chin. “What are you going to do about it?” she asks, and Georgi begins to laugh.


	2. the world of spheres

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor/Chris - Touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Platonic soulmates Victor/Christophe; Asexual/Aromantic Christophe 
> 
> i did tag this fic as victor/chris, even though it's a platonic bond, because i think being soulmates qualifies them for more than an "&", but they are not romantically attached. just fyi.

Christophe knows who Viktor Nikiforov is from the time he starts skating competitively at around eight and a half. Viktor Nikiforov is a little older, a little taller; a little more blond than Christophe. He’s pretty in pictures, prettier even than most of the girls at Christophe’s rink, his hair drifting like mercury across the tops of his shoulders. He’s talented, and charming, and skates like a dream, at least according to new articles and coaches gossip. He’s fascinating in the way of all beautiful things, and also because Christophe knows that, if they both keep rising in the ranks, they’ll skate against each other one day in competition. 

Christophe imagines, of course, that he will win - imagines standing on the top of the podium, looking down at silver hair to match a silver medal while his own gold burns against his chest- then refocuses on the next spin to learn, the next jump to perfect. And the next, and the next, and the next. 

In spite of this, he doesn’t follow Viktor with any particular dedication; something about Viktor feels inevitable, and so Christophe feels no real pull to hurry behind in Viktor’s wake. Their paths will intersect regardless, he thinks, and puts it easily out of his mind. But after another couple years, Viktor’s shadow becomes inescapable, first in Russia, then in Europe, then the world. Viktor wins in novices, wins in juniors, makes his senior debut at the tender age of fifteen. Christophe follows two years later.

Christophe, now nearly sixteen and currently standing as the best skater his age in Switzerland, watches from the bleachers, one part awe to two parts analytic strategizing as Viktor takes gold again and lets a fan settle a wreath of blue roses on his head. It’s Christophe’s first year on the senior circuit, and he’s done respectably for himself against much older competitors, but. He hadn’t come close to touching Viktor Nikiforov.

He’s clearing out his gear bag and coat and costume bag from the locker room later, staying out of the way of the older skaters and the coaches as they bustle through. He’s not expecting it when a slim body lands beside him on the wooden bench, and he turns, startled, to face the boy beside him. 

Viktor’s eyes are closed, his head resting against the lockers as he slumps, but it’s only a split second before he bounces upright, tipping his head to the side as he smiles that cheerful grin and holds out his hand. 

“It’s a pleasure, Christophe,” Viktor says, holding out a hand. “I’m Viktor Nikiforov. I’ve heard so much about you.”

Christophe manages to avoid rolling his eyes at the possibility that any skater might not immediately recognize Viktor Nikiforov in the flesh, and sticks his own hand out of his oversized coat sleeve to take Viktor’s. “Christophe Giacometti,” he says as he brings their fingers together. “It’s nice to-”

He’s not expecting the electric shock that flows through his skin at the contact with Viktor, and smacks his left hand against the bank of lockers to steady himself as the right clutches at Viktor’s. Viktor looks equally stunned, ethereal blue eyes wide and round as the circuit completes through them, dissipating with an electric tingle through Christophe’s extremities. 

“Wow,” Viktor whispers, his voice reverent and his gaze glowing as it settles on Christophe, who takes a shuddering breath. “You’re my…”

“Soulmate,” Christophe agrees, because there is no other explanation, as strange and unexpected as it might be. “We’re soulmates.”

“Wow!” Viktor says again, louder, his whole face scrunching up until it in no way resembles the perfect lines of his photoshoots or the delicate intensity of his performances on the ice. His mouth is ridiculous and heartshaped, Christophe notices, and there’s a roaring in his ears as he tries to process it. 

“I don’t,” Christophe starts, and has to pause to clear his throat. They’re still holding hands, and Christophe feels like they should stop, but also has no idea how to begin to let go. “Um, I don’t… like boys,” he gets out, and Viktor blinks. Christophe feels a little desperate. What if the universe is wrong? What if they’re not meant to be soulmates?

“Oh,” Viktor says, and lays the index finger of the hand that isn’t tangled in Christophe’s against his own lips thoughtfully. “I do.” He shrugs. “You prefer girls?” 

Viktor’s tone is utterly neutral, but Christophe can feel the nerves crackling between them both, and clutches unconsciously harder at Viktor’s grasp. 

“I, um,” he says, and looks at his knees. “I don’t really like anyone? Or I haven’t so far. Not romantically. Not like…”

“Oh!” Viktor says, and he beams at Christophe even as their palms go sweaty. “That’s okay, then. There’s no time for any of that when we’re competing anyway.” Christophe breathes an unsubtle sigh of relief, and Viktor’s face goes more serious, shining with what Christophe thinks is a quiet hope. “Christophe, we-”

“‘Chris,’” he says, interrupting. “Please. Just, ‘Chris’.”

Viktor’s smile goes soft, and he brings Chris’s hand to press against his heart. 

“Then I am ‘Vitya’,” Viktor tells him, and Chris nods, jerkily. 

“Vitya,” he says, and the word fits on his tongue like a prayer. 

“Oh,  _ Chris _ ,” Viktor’s smile could light the entire arena, Chris thinks, and the steady thump of Victor’s heart under his palm echos through his whole body, finding its sympathetic rhythm in his own. “We are going to be the  _ best _ of friends!”


	3. please take care of me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Otabek Altin/Katsuki Yuuri - Communication
> 
> brief mention of a panic attack/anxiety

The panic attack comes on quickly after the Russian Punk departs, the bathroom door banging loudly in his wake, the echoes of his fury still ringing in the tiled lavatory. Yuuri settles himself on the floor of the stall, knees up and phone in hand, closing his eyes so he doesn’t have to see the black spots floating at the corners of his vision. 

_ It’s over _ , he thinks,  _ it’s all over _ . His one chance to prove himself, his one opportunity to show the world what he could do. All over, because he couldn’t hold it together when it mattered.

He forces himself to breathe, shuddering, sobbing breaths in and out, in and out, ignoring the tears and snot running down his face. At least the bathroom floor is relatively clean, he thinks dispassionately as he shakes apart against the stall door. 

He’s too busy contemplating the end of his skating career to notice that someone has entered the bathroom until he sees a pair of shoes come to a stop outside his stall and hears someone clear their throat.

“Everything alright?” a voice asks, and it’s a nice voice, soft and deep with an accent Yuuri doesn’t recognize. Kind, Yuuri thinks, but then, they must be if they’re trying to talk to someone in the middle of an obvious meltdown.

“Sorry,” he answers, biting out his words around his shaking breath. “You won’t be able to understand me because I’m too upset right now, but I’m just having a panic attack. Don’t waste your time on me, it will pass.”

There’s a long moment of silence during which Yuuri attempts to clean his face with the inside of his t-shirt collar. 

“I understood you perfectly well,” the voice says finally, a note of uncertainty threading through it like a crack through ice. “Can you come out? Or is there room for me to come in?”

Yuuri feels his heart stop in his chest. 

“That’s not - that’s not possible,” he says, voice cracking. He holds his hands out in front of him, watches them shake. “No one understands me when I’m upset like this. I speak a different language. The only person who could…” he trails off. 

“Maybe you’re not as upset as you thought?” the voice offers, and there come the sounds of a body settling down against the outside of the stall door. Where there were shoes, now there are black warm-up pants and the edge of a turquoise jacket. 

Yuuri looks at the shake in his fingers, presses a hand to the race of his heart, and sighs. “No,” he answers, and it feels like he’s having an out-of-body experience. “No, I definitely am.”

“That’s your tell?” the voice asks, sounding cautiously curious, and Yuuri stares at the black-clad knee that’s inches from his own. “That no one can understand you when you’re upset?”

“No one but my soulmate,” Yuuri whispers, and suddenly he’s crying again, and he can’t say why. 

“Here,” a gloved hand reaches under the stall door and holds out a handkerchief. “It’s okay.”

Yuuri takes it, because what other option does he have? He’s here in Russia sitting on cold bathroom tile, having just bombed the GPF; his dog is dead, he’s a shaking, snotty, mess, and apparently this is the moment he’s meeting his soulmate. 

He wipes his face and blows his nose, then heaves himself up onto his knees, scooting back so he can open the stall door. 

The face that blinks back at him when the door swings open is familiar, but he doesn’t think they’ve ever officially met. It’s a handsome face; dark eyes, tanned skin, thick, dark hair. 

“Otabek Altin?” Yuuri asks in surprise. He knows of Otabek; knows he was a dark horse favorite to make the GPF in his senior debut, and missed out by only a few points. He’s a powerhouse who’s still refining his presentation, but anyone who counts him out is a fool. 

Otabek nods. “Katsuki Yuuri?” he replies, and Yuuri nods, using the door frame to pull himself up to standing. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to be feeling right now, face to face with someone who’s probably his soulmate. Mostly he feels tired and numb.

“You must be stiff,” Otabek says, and holds out a hand to hook under Yuuri’s elbow. “Do you want me to walk you back to your hotel room?”

“What’s yours?” Yuuri blurts, and Otabek steps back so that Yuuri can come out of the stall. He’s still shaking, but there are no more black spots, and his legs feel like they’ll hold him. He still needs to collect his gear from the locker room, and it’s going to be hard to dodge the press, but maybe…

“My tell?” Otabek asks, and Yuuri nods. Standing, he can tell that Otabek is a couple inches shorter than he is. Younger, too, if Yuuri recalls correctly.

Otabek peels off a glove, and Yuuri glances down at his hand. It’s lovely - wide through the palm, long, tapered fingers. He must do some sort of work with his hands, because Yuuri can see the build up of calluses across his strong palms. 

“Will you take my hand, Yuuri?” Otabek asks softly, and Yuuri raises his eyes to Otabek’s face, catching the flicker of nerves that surface and then vanish in Otabek’s dark eyes. He doesn’t know what Otabek is nervous about, but he’s struck with the sudden feeling that he doesn’t like it. Otabek shouldn’t be nervous, shouldn’t be afraid; he’s not like Yuuri, he’s not a falling-apart mess who ruins everything he touches. He’s a rising star, fresh and determined and ready to take the world by storm.

Otabek’s palm is dry and cool against Yuuri’s own. Their hands fit together like they were made for it, and Yuuri feels his own shaking subside against the steadiness of Otabek’s grip. 

“This is your tell?” Yuuri asks, and he is, admittedly confused. He leaves his hand in Otabek’s, because Otabek is staring at their linked fingers with an amazed look upon his face. 

“Yes,” Otabek says after a long moment, turning their hands first one way, then another. His expression is bordering on reverent when he lifts his eyes from their shared grasp to Yuuri’s face. “My touch burns.”

“Ah,” Yuuri says, letting his fingers press against the cool roughness of Otabek’s palm. “For everyone else?”

“Yes,” Otabek agrees, “everyone but my soulmate.” He shakes himself, then releases Yuuri’s hand, pulling his glove back on, then holding out an elbow for Yuuri to take.

“Please,” he says, and his voice is so strong, but so gentle. Yuuri could listen to it forever, and, he realizes suddenly, he just might get to. “Please let me walk you back to your room.”

Yuuri hooks his arm into the crook of Otabek’s. Nothing feels real anymore, none of it has since two days ago when he found out about Vicchan, but if nothing else, this is a better kind of surreal than he was in five minutes ago. 

“Thank you, Otabek,” Yuuri answers, letting his tired weight lean just a little into Otabek’s broad frame. “Please take care of me.”


	4. one look in your eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sara/Mila - Sight

There are tests they give you as a child to identify the color you can see. Once you’re old enough to talk and respond reliably, usually around two or three depending on the individual, they take you to a center and show you a set of identically sized and shaped rubber balls, each in a different color. The child, of course, cannot tell they’re different colors; only that one of them is not the same as the others. 

The test-giver will lay the balls out for examination as a group, and ask the child to point to the one that’s different. Once identified, the “different” ball will be placed in a bin with the rest, mixed up, and then, in order to prevent any false positives, the child is asked to pull out the ball that’s different. If the ball produced is the same ball which had been identified as “different” prior to the mixing, then your soulmate color is known. 

With Mila, it had been hard: purple is an unusual eye color, and consequently there was not a purple ball in the set of seemingly identical grey balls laid out before her. The test-giver had tried hard to get little Mila to identify which ball was different, and only when Mila threw a tantrum at being called “uncooperative” did her father ask her to point to  _ anything _ in the room that looked “different”. Mila immediately pointed to her own purple shoes, and, when prompted further, was able to also point out the purple in a photo on the wall and in the test-giver’s sweater. 

The test-giver apologized for the oversight and put the assorted array of blue, green, grey, brown, and hazel rubber balls back into their bucket, passing her card to Mila’s father in case follow-up was needed. The card was declined, Mila’s father still smarting from the nearly failed testing and the poor treatment of his child. They had what they came for; they would not be back.

The main thing that Mila remembers about the whole thing is going for ice cream afterward, her father holding her up so she could see all of the flavors. That day is the reason that grape sherbet becomes her favorite flavor (though she will add blackberry, huckleberry, ube, and lavender to that list in short order).

Mila grows up knowing two things: first, that it should be pretty easy to identify her soulmate once she finds them, given that purple eyes are quite uncommon, but secondly, that this means it’s going to be potentially much harder to find them than it would if the ball she had picked had been blue, or green, or grey. Mila’s never seen anyone with purple eyes in Russia, let alone in her hometown.

She takes to wearing a purple ribbon in her hair; it’s a custom for young girls, declaring the color you see to the world. Some go so far as to dress entirely in their single sighted color until they meet their soulmates. It’s a sign of devotion, supposedly; Mila thinks it’s boring. She already has to wear a uniform for school and all her training clothes are the same blacks and greys and Russian reds - she doesn’t need to confine herself further. No, her deep purple hair ribbon is enough. 

When they finally meet, Mila’s both shocked to find her soulmate so young, given the rarity of her color, and yet surprised, given the circumstances, that it took so long. They’re both figure skaters, after all, competing on the circuit; it could have happened sooner, almost certainly  _ would’ve _ happened sooner if Sara weren’t four years older. 

It doesn’t matter, in the end - Mila is newly sixteen and walking through the back halls at her first senior-level competition when she runs smack into another competitor. “ _ Ow _ ,” she says, grabbing at the other girl’s arms, “I’m so sorry, I-” she looks down into purple eyes, and the world bursts into color around her, streaks and shades she’s never seen, dizzying and overwhelming in their intensity. The other girl is clutching at her arms, chin slightly lifted as she looks up at Mila’s face.

“Wow,” the girl breathes, and Mila’s heart feels like it thumps sideways at the sound of her voice. A slim, tanned hand comes up to tuck a piece of Mila’s hair out of her eyes. The girl looks shocked, but her thumb lingers at the corner of Mila’s lashes. 

“I-,” Mila starts, “you…”

“Blue,” the girl says, and she’s smiling.


	5. you are my sunshine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phichit/Seung-gil/Christophe - Emotion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> very passing mention of an NPC being racist to Phichit; brief discussion of depression

Phichit can’t remember life without his soulmates in his mind, in his heart. 

Neither can Seung-Gil, since he and Phichit are only months apart in age, but Chris can, which Phichit doesn’t like to think about. 

_ Was it lonely _ , he asked once,  _ were you sad? _

Chris just shrugged. “I was a tiny child, cheri,” he answered, “I don’t think I was much of anything yet.” He pulled Phichit close, pressed a kiss to his hair. “I remember becoming aware of you, though, sunshine.” Chris chuckled, making Phichit smile. “Always so happy. Such a ray of light.”

\---

The truth is that Phichit thinks he would have been a cheerful person anyway; he was, by all accounts, a happy baby - chubby cheeked and laughing, reaching out to everyone he knew for affection and attention. But the truth is also that there are feelings in Phichit’s head that are not his own - one set that is determined and forceful and feels everything so,  _ so _ deeply; and another that is full of ambition and disappointment, loneliness and hope, ebbing and flowing in circuitous chase. 

Being cheerful is almost a form of self-defense, at least at first. Phichit likes to be happy, finds it  _ easy _ to be happy. And when, at some point, he discovers that he can push those things that he feels outward, well. What else can he do? He wants his soulmates to be happy, too, like he is; and if he can provide that for them, why wouldn’t he?

\---

He meets Seung-gil first, when they’re both ten and at a novices competition for up-and-coming young Asian skaters. He watches Seung-gil perform, feels it in his gut like a physical pain when Seung-gil touches the ice, then watches in real time as Seung-gil stumbles at the wave of shock he clearly senses from Phichit where he stands at the side of the rink. 

Phichit claps his hands over his mouth and closes his eyes, focusing on projecting every confident, self-assured thought he can manage: the ease he feels in spins, the joy he takes in landing a jump, the exultation when the crowd cheers. He watches the video of the performance later, bites his lip at how Seung-gil’s eyes go wide and his skating pulls together. Seung-gil takes second, in spite of his touch on the ice and his stumble, and Phichit corners him afterward in the locker room. 

“Hi,” he says, beaming as wide as he can, “I’m Phichit! I’m your soulmate!”

Seung-gil nods gravely, shoving his skates into his bag. “I know,” he says, looking still a little shell-shocked. “I figured it out when you skated. Congratulations on gold.”

Phichit blushes, and suppresses the sudden spike of anxiety he feels at the reminder that maybe Seung-gil wouldn’t have come in second if Phichit hadn’t startled him with the revelation of their connection. “Thanks,” he says instead, sitting down on the bench beside him. “You know there’s a third, right?”

Seung-gil just nods again, dark eyes black to Phichit’s warmer grey. “I think he’s older,” he says, and Phichit nods in agreement. “He’s the ambitious one, you’re the cheerful one. Here,” Seung-gil passes over his phone. “Add yourself.”

Phichit adds himself to the contact list with a smile and a smiley. 

\--

They meet Chris when they’re fourteen. Chris, it turns out, is at the junior worlds competition with his coach because his coach has a younger skater competing, and Chris came along for the ride. He makes his way into the locker room and finds them both, side-by-side on the bench as they pack their bags. 

“At last,” Chris declares triumphantly, shoving a bouquet of flowers at each of them. “I could feel you were here, and then when I saw you each skate, I figured it out.”

Phichit beams, throwing himself into Chris’s open arms, narrowly avoiding smashing the bouquet of sunflowers that Chris is thrusting in his direction. It’s such a relief to finally know; he and Seung-gil have had each other for years now, but to complete the loop is like coming home. He can feel Seung-gil hovering, unsure, so he reaches down and grabs him by the arm, pulling him up and into the hug, pushing his joy at having them both here out as hard as he can. 

Chris chuckles in his ear. “Even stronger in person, sunshine,” he murmurs, and Phichit beams.

\--

It’s not a problem until the autumn when Phichit’s nineteen. 

It starts off unremarkably enough; he and Yuuri are best friends, he’s starting his second season in seniors and his sophomore year of college - by all accounts, this should be a good year. Phichit is someone who always expects each year to be better than the last, and then sets out in September to make it happen, but even so - this one is supposed to be the best yet. But then…

But then Phichit’s grandma gets sick two weeks into the new semester, and he can’t afford to go home for her illness or her funeral. A month later, Yuuri manages to win a Grand Prix event, meaning he has a real chance of making the Final, and proceeds to spiral into the most intense combo of determined ambition and unceasing anxiety that Phichit’s seen from him yet. On top of that, Phichit’s classes this fall are hard, and it turns out one of his teachers is a racist dick who thinks that Phichit probably can’t read English well enough to pass the class, and it all just… snowballs. 

The icing on top of the shit cake is when Phichit sprains an ankle during practice and is banned from the ice for four weeks. 

He sinks into a funk the likes of which he’s never experienced. He stops going to classes, stops bathing regularly; he takes to sleeping a lot, at strange times. The crutches make it hard to get around, he tells himself, he can just submit his homework online; trying to shower while standing on one foot is challenging and dangerous, and if he wants a bath, he’d have to scrub the tub first, and he’s pretty sure they’re out of tub scrubber, and he can’t go out to get any, because crutches, and…

“I’m sorry it took us so long to figure it out,” Chris says when he arrives, a rush of cold air and flowers, handsome in his winter coat and stubble. Seung-gil is a step behind him with take-out Thai from the only good restaurant in town, which clearly means Yuuri’s in on this, too. He sets the flowers on Phichit’s nightstand and pulls him into his arms. “And I’m sorry you’re having such a rough time.”

“Here,” Seung-gil says, pushing the food at him. “You need to eat.” His voice is taciturn, but the worry coming off him is so strong that it does Phichit in, and he bursts into helpless tears where he sits in week-old pajamas and bedhead.

\--

After a bath (Seung-gil scrubbed the tub; Yuuri offered up scented bath salts and did a load of laundry, while Chris changed Phichit’s sheets and cleaned up his room) and fresh clothes and food, Phichit feels the best he has in weeks, sitting on the couch with a soulmate pressed close on each side.

“I’m sorry,” he says, hanging his head. “I know I haven’t been very fun to be with for the last few months.”

“Oh, cheri,” Chris says, wrapping an arm around him, “it’s okay. Honestly,” he half-laughs, half-sighs. “Honestly, this probably needed to happen. I hadn’t realized how dependent I was on your happiness to keep me steady.”

Seung-gil nods, his usual neutral expression cracked and worried, his hand wrapped in Phichit’s own. “Me too. It’s not healthy, Phichit. You’ve been taking care of us so long. I didn’t… I didn’t even know, not until it was gone.”

Phichit gives a shuddering sigh. “Oh,” he says, leaning his head on Seung-gil’s shoulder. “I just. Happy is easy? And I want to share it with you. I always have.”

Chris presses a kiss to his head, curling his tall warmth around them both. “And we love it, sunshine. But we have to take care of you, too.”

“We want to make you happy,” Seung-gil says fiercely, “like you do for us,” and Phichit has to laugh, feeling his joy bubbling over for the first time in what feels like forever. He revels in it, lets it radiate out, watches the warmth hit the cheeks of the two most important people in his world.

“You do,” he says, kissing each cheek in turn, “I promise, you do.”


	6. say you'll wait for me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor/Yuri P. - Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: mild and relatively brief mention of blood and a broken bone

By the time the date appears on Victor’s wrist, he’s twelve years old and has decided that he must not have a soulmate at all. 

It’s uncommon, yes, but what other answer is there? Twelve years of watching his friends and rinkmates get their marks, pretending to admire the scrawling hand-written dates that surface on their skin on the day their soulmate is born. Many people are close enough in age to their soulmate that they don’t even remember their mark appearing at all, and, of course, half the population is born with a mark already in place, signifying their soulmate’s presence in the world before their own birth.

Not Victor. He’ll remember this moment for the rest of his life, watching with teeth gritted against the pain as sharp, dark handwriting blooms across the delicate, pale skin of his forearm.

He’s young enough that he doesn’t think at first about what the timing of this event means for the logistics of his life, but then puberty hits with a vengeance. Everyone he knows is pairing off, and suddenly he’s fourteen with inconvenient boners and wet dreams that leave him gasping, and the person he’s supposed to find true romantic love with is a _literal_ toddler; then he’s seventeen, eighteen, and his soulmate is somewhere in the world graduating from preschool to kindergarten, and the loneliness that presses in around him gains weight and heft, holding him down to the surface of the ice. 

It would be better, he thinks, to have no soulmate at all - then he would be free to pursue whatever love he could find in this life, small and unsatisfying though it might be, instead of this endless waiting. Better nothing than the ongoing feeling that he’s betraying a trust he never asked for; better nothing than giving all his love, all his passion, to something as cold and unforgiving as his own heart. 

\---

He’s twenty-two when he meets the ten-year-old Yuri Plisetsky, and he doesn’t have to check the birthdate on the summer camp admittance form in his hands to know that it matches the date carved into his own flesh. Victor feels his stomach drop, and his hands grow cold.

Yuri blinks at him hard when Victor introduces himself to the group, waving his practiced wave and smiling his practiced smile. The class goes all flustered as Victor beams at them, caught between puppy crushes and hero worship, and he can see the moment that Yuri dismisses whatever instinctive response he’s feeling as just getting caught up in the moment, as falling for Victor’s fame. It hurts; it’s an icicle to the gut, no matter how much Victor knows that it’s for the best, that Yuri cannot yet be who Victor needs him to be. 

It  _ is _ for the best, though, that Yuri have no idea who they are to each other. Victor knows this like he knows the chill of the wind off the river, and the vodka Victor drinks that night goes down smooth and cold, snuffing out the burning of his heart.

And then… and then Yakov takes Yuri Plisetsky on as a student, and Victor wants, a little bit, to die. It’s torture, having his soulmate around; his soulmate who is still too young, who is still a  _ literal child _ to Victor’s now six years of legal adulthood, and who has no idea of the bond that’s meant to be between them. 

Victor buries himself in success instead, lets his heart burn blue with pain, carves his determination into the rink day after day after day.

It doesn’t work. The pull is there, no matter how much Yuri seems to hate it, to reject it out of hand, and isn’t that a slap in the face? Victor’s own soulmate doesn’t want anything to do with him, seems to actively despise him, but even so he can’t stay away. He follows Victor around, alternately swearing at Victor for crimes like breathing and watching every move Victor makes, mimicking them later with devastating facility.

They come to a detente, eventually - Yuri spits annoyance at Victor, and Victor ignores him, occasionally offering tips or corrections which Yuri spurns, but then implements. Yuri goes home with Yakov and Lilia; Victor goes home alone.

\---

When Yuri turns eighteen, Victor feels every day of his own thirty years. He wakes up and stares at himself in the mirror, inspects his tiny but real bald spot and the faint bags under his eyes. He doesn’t even know if Yuri likes boys. It wouldn’t matter; Yuri’s made it very clear he doesn’t like  _ him _ . Victor drops a present by Yakov’s before noon, guaranteeing Yuri won’t be up, and then heads to the bar.

“You should tell him, cheri,” Chris says when Yuri turns nineteen the next year, “he deserves to know.”

“He’s still so young,” Victor sighs into his wine, and rubs his hand over his face. He can feel the lines on his forehead now, but Yuri wears glitter eyeliner with his leather jacket and Victor can’t handle it, in more ways than one. “A few more years. I owe him that much.”

“You owe him the truth,” Chris says, but he refills Victor’s glass, and lets him change the subject.

\---

The day Yuri finds out, he breaks Victor’s nose. 

He’s twenty-one now, and strong, the best skater in the world for the last two years, and set to stay that way. Victor’s a coach at Yakov’s rink, and is too distracted to notice the look of utter fury on Yuri’s face when he approaches until it’s too late, and then he’s bending over and clutching at his face as his nose gushes blood onto the boards. 

“What the  _ fuck _ ?” he asks, and Yuri calmly passes him a wad of paper towels to press against his face. He waits until Victor has them in place before he punches Victor in the shoulder, hard.

“You never told me, you absolute  _ shithead _ . How long?” he grabs Victor by the coat lapels and shakes him. “How fucking  _ long _ , old man?”

“Ah,” Victor straightens his nose with the ease of a person who has broken bones before. It’s a clean break; he can get the rink medics to tape it. “From the day we met,” he says, and it’s almost satisfying the way that Yuri gapes at him.

“You’ve known for the last _ eleven fucking years  _ that we were soulmates?” Yuri pulls at his hair in disbelief. “And you never said a goddamn  _ thing _ ??”

Victor blows his nose, wincing as the vibrations shudder through his already-swelling face. “Like what?” he asks tiredly, “hello, ten-year-old child, I am a twenty-two-year-old who is your fated romantic interest?”

Yuri frowns, and Victor can’t tell if he’s perplexed or furious. Probably both. “Even you’re not  _ that _ stupid, Victor. You could have just become my friend.”

“Right. You definitely would have wanted that,” Victor sighs. “Can I go get them to tape me up, or did you want to shout at me some more?”

“ _ Christ almighty _ ,” Yuri rolls his eyes, “come on, you pathetic piece of shit, let’s go fix your face.” He reaches out and takes Victor by the arm, his touch gentle, and  _ huh _ , Victor thinks,  _ that’s new _ . 

“Victor,” Yuri says once they’re in the empty hallway, not looking at him, “did you not want me to know?”

There’s a vulnerability in his voice that’s so, so rare, and Victor knows he’s got one chance at this, so he pulls Yuri to the side of the vacant corridor, waiting until Yuri looks up at him, green eyes sharp and nervous under the unforgiving fluorescent lights.

“I didn’t want to trap you,” Victor says, and he gives up on resisting the urge to reach up and curl his blood-smeared fingers around the edge of Yuri’s cheek. “I didn’t want you to feel like I had come into your life when you were a child, and tried to make you what I wanted you to be.”

“But Victor,” Yuri says after a moment, his voice small, “twenty-one years? Weren’t you lonely?”

Victor knows the smile that cuts across his face is as bitter as the sea that laps at the mouth of the Neva outside. “Thirty-three years. And yes. I am.”

Yuri shoves his hand into Victor’s, lacing their fingers together so hard it hurts. Victor blinks in surprise. 

“Never again,” Yuri vows, vibrating with the same intensity that he radiates when he steps onto the ice, the Ice Tiger of Russia, reigning world champion and soulmate to Victor Nikiforov. “As long as I am alive? Never. Again.”

**Author's Note:**

> comments are love, uwu. plz love me.


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